Page 2 of The Cauldronball Run (Outlaw Country #2)

J .J.

J.J. Grimjaw heard the crack before he felt it. Another hospital door handle, broken. The seventh this month. He stared at the twisted titanium in his palm. The metal had bent like a pretzel where his fingers had gripped too tight.

Son of a bitch. He bit back the curse, glancing around. The last thing his career needed was another complaint about the orc EMT's attitude problem. Mercy General Hospital didn't care about his frustration, and neither did the universe that had made him too big for everything in it.

Everything broke when he touched it. Door handles.

Office chairs. Blood pressure cuffs that were supposed to be industrial strength.

That damn vending machine had eaten his dollar last week, so he'd tried to retrieve it gently, and somehow the entire front panel had buckled inward like aluminum foil.

The maintenance guys had stopped being subtle about their frustration.

This morning's note in his locker just said, "Stop touching things.”

He was a walking disaster in scrubs.

J.J. tossed the mangled handle into his toolbox.

The reinforced steel box had originally been designed for storing car batteries because even his storage containers needed to be orc-proof.

The irony wasn't lost on him that he was an orc trained to save lives, but he was hell-bent on destroying inanimate objects.

His ambulance sat in the lot like a monument to his refusal to be defeated by human engineering.

The 2018 Ford Transit had been completely rebuilt from the frame up, every component modified or replaced to accommodate someone his size.

Where other people saw a boxy emergency vehicle, J.J.

saw the only space in his life where he actually fit.

The engine under the hood was his masterpiece.

The 5.0L V8 definitely hadn't come from the factory.

It was tuned to perfection and powerful enough to outrun anything on four wheels.

He'd reinforced the suspension after the embarrassing incident last year when he'd bottomed out in front of half the nursing staff.

The driver's seat was basically a La-Z-Boy recliner welded to steel plates and bolted down with hardware he'd borrowed from bridge construction.

Even his door handles were custom-made from crane parts.

This is what I've been reduced to, he thought, running his fingers along the reinforced frame.

Building a vehicle that only looked like an ambulance.

It had a stretcher, medical equipment, oxygen tanks, but J.J.

had made some creative modifications. The oxygen tanks could provide nitrous boost when needed.

Some of the IV bags labeled "saline solution" contained custom fuel additives.

J.J. climbed into the driver's seat, which groaned under his weight despite all the reinforcement.

Even his own vehicle complained about his existence.

The engine started with a purr that would make Ferrari owners weep with envy.

At least he was good at building things, even if he broke them afterward.

His phone looked like a children's toy in his hands. The screen was already cracked from when he'd accidentally squeezed too hard reading his overdue payment notices. The incoming text from his dragon friend Poppy made him sit up and take notice.

"Yo, Green Machine. The coordinator just posted the entry details for this year's Cauldronball Run."

J.J. had been training for months doing late-night practice runs between jobs, timing routes, perfecting his ambulance's performance.

The Cauldronball Run represented everything he couldn't have in his normal life: speed, freedom, and the chance to use his skills for something bigger than just surviving paycheck to paycheck.

A quarter million gold. Winner takes all. Enough money to pay off his crushing medical school debt and maybe, finally, build a life where he wasn't constantly apologizing for taking up too much space.

The real reason he was desperate enough to consider this insanity sat in his glove compartment.

The collection of past-due notices read like a catalog of his failures: thousands of gold in student loans at variable interest rates that kept climbing; the mortgage on his tiny condo that he could barely afford even with three jobs; credit cards maxed out from textbooks, uniforms, and the custom modifications his size required for everything from furniture to vehicles.

He'd graduated summa cum laude from one of the best paramedic programs in the country, scored in the top five percent on his licensing exams, and had letters of recommendation that made him sound like a medical superhero.

But none of that mattered when you were an orc in a human-sized world where employers saw your tusks and green skin before they saw your credentials.

Three years of "we're going with a candidate who's a better cultural fit" and "we're concerned about patient comfort levels" had left him working for services that paid barely above minimum wage and treated him like a liability instead of an asset.

J.J. pulled into the parking lot of a 24-hour diner and opened his laptop. It was construction-grade because he'd murdered three regular ones. Clicking on Craigslist, he started his ad:

Medical transport driver needed - urgent

He typed. Deleted. Typed again.

Licensed paramedic needed for completely legitimate medical transport that is definitely not illegal street racing...

Zeus's hairy balls. Why not just add his social security number and a note saying, "Please arrest me."

Professional driver needed for time-sensitive medical emergency involving absolutely no federal crimes...

Worse.

The auto-correct wasn't helping, changing "discretion" to "destruction" and somehow turning "transport" into "transformer." After ten minutes of fighting with keys designed for normal-sized fingers, he settled on something that sounded almost believable:

Licensed paramedic/EMT needed for high-priority medical transport from New York to Los Angeles and back again in quick turnaround time frame.

Must be willing to drive at fast speeds.

Must be comfortable with unconventional situations.

Discretion essential. 15,000 gold for no more than five days' work. Serious inquiries only.

He stared at the completed ad. It looked like exactly what it was—a desperate attempt to recruit someone for something sketchy without actually admitting to the sketchy part.

This is insane, he thought. I'm a responsible EMT with three jobs and a spotless record. I save lives for a living.

His phone buzzed with another overdue payment notice. Your payment is now 15 days overdue.

He had worked his ass off for medical school, taken on crushing debt to better himself, spent three years working multiple jobs just to stay above water. He followed every rule, respected every protocol, and he was still drowning.

What had responsibility ever gotten him besides loneliness and debt?

The memory of yesterday's shift supervisor pulling him aside still stung. "Look, Grimjaw, I know you mean well, but Mrs. Henderson from room four complained again. Says you're too intimidating, makes her nervous. Maybe try to be more approachable."

Approachable. He was seven feet of green muscle with tusks. The only thing that made him approachable was distance.

But that wasn't the worst part. The worst part was watching his human partner get credit for saves that J.J. had made, seeing other EMTs get promotions he'd been passed over for, knowing that no matter how good he was at his job, he'd always be seen as the monster in scrubs.

J.J. hit publish before he could talk himself out of it.

The response came so quickly he wondered if it was spam:

I'm a licensed paramedic with five years of experience in emergency medicine. I have a spotless driving record. I'm available immediately and comfortable with unconventional situations. Can we meet tomorrow to discuss details? - F. Moonbeam

He read the email three times. Someone had actually responded to his crazy ad. Someone with medical credentials and a name weird enough that they might not run screaming when they met him.

He typed back carefully: Meet me tomorrow at Mel's Diner off I-95 at 2 PM. I'll be the big guy in the EMT uniform at the corner booth. I’m J.J.

His finger hovered over the send button. Tomorrow he'd either have a partner for the most dangerous thing he'd ever attempted, or he'd spend five minutes watching someone's face change from professional interest to barely concealed terror when they realized what he was.

Story of my life , he thought, and hit send.

J.J. pulled back onto the highway, already pushing seventy in a fifty-five zone.

The cops knew his ambulance by sight. The EMT badge and the emergency transport excuse had gotten him out of more tickets than he could count.

It helped that most officers considered a seven-foot orc in medical scrubs either reassuring or terrifying enough not to argue.

Three days until the Cauldronball Run. Three days to fake medical paperwork, convince a complete stranger to commit federal crimes, and convince himself that his modified ambulance would keep up with actual professional street racers.

But for a quarter million gold and the first real chance at freedom since he'd graduated med school?

J.J. Grimjaw was willing to risk it all.

Even if it meant lying to someone desperate enough to answer his sketchy ad.